Dropout
by Catsluver
Summary: This is a rewrite of a story that I posted a couple of years ago. John is training his boys for one thing, hunting. Dean's ready to go full-time, but Sam is adamant. He doesn't want Dean to drop out of school, and he gets John to side with him, at least it seems that way. The boys train, have their first hunt without John all while Sam tries to get Dean through school.
1. Family Business

_**Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Sam's Folly.**_

_**Dropout**_

_**Chapter One**_

_**Winchester Family Business**_

"Dean, you can't quit!" Sam's thirteen year old voice already cracked and squeaked annoyingly, and when he was upset it was even worse.

Dean rolled his eyes. _Drama Queen!_ It was on the tip of his tongue, but Dad's eyes wandered up from his journal and nailed Dean, daring him to say the words aloud. Clearly Dad didn't want to deal with this. He wanted quiet. Dean knew the look well.

Said drama queen was sitting cross-legged on the bed, his schoolwork strewn around him. Dean was sitting at the small table across from his father. John was writing in his journal, recording the things he'd learned on his last hunt. He always wrote down everything he could remember as quickly as he could. He said he didn't want to forget any details. He said it was important. He was amassing information that was essential to the "family business," hunting supernatural things and saving lives.

Dean was supposed to be studying. He had his history book open in his hands, but his mind had been wondering for some time now. He'd thought about Kitzy Mason, the cute redhead in his math class, and that occupied his mind for a while; but like it usually did, Dean's mind had wandered to hunting. Last weekend, he and John had hunted down a ghoul—a real corpse-eating, nasty-assed, really foul-smelling ghoul. John had been proud of him, and Dean remembered the warm feeling of basking in his father's pride.

How could anything be more important than hunting—killing things that hurt people? It was like being a superhero and Dad needed his help. He'd said as much, many times. He'd been training Dean since he was just a kid to do this. How could it be wrong? How could Dad possibly say no? Dean was sure that Dad had been waiting for Dean to decide on this. He was so sure it was what Dad wanted. Dad would agree with him, no doubt in Dean's mind, and Dean's problem would be solved.

Dean knew Sam would be upset—throw a bitch-fit. Sam would never let it go without a fight. But when Dad said yes—when Dad agreed with Dean, there wouldn't be much Sam could do but yell and pout and try to make Dean feel guilty. Sam could guilt Dean into a lot of things, but about this, Dean was sure, and he was determined not to change his mind. He was going to do this, and Dad would back him up.

"Dad!" Sam whined, demanding help.

"No, Dean." John gave his answer bluntly along with a look that indicated he was not willing to discuss the matter. Then he began writing in his journal again, and except for the scratching of John's pen, all was silent. The answer hit Dean hard and disappointment lay heavy in his gut. Dad might as well have shot him.

Dean sighed and got up from the table. Walking over to the bed, he looked back at his father. The one thing he didn't expect was that John would side with Sam. Dean was hurt and angry, but he didn't argue with John. He never argued with his father. He turned back and pushed his younger brother and all his books and papers to one side of the bed, then plopped down and stretched out, closing his eyes and folding his arms across his chest. _Damn!_ He thought it but wouldn't dare to say it aloud.

Dean could hear Sam breathe a sigh of relief and fiddle around with his papers. He knew Sam wouldn't say anything more. John's final "no" had ended the conversation, and Sam knew it as well as Dean did. Besides, John gave the answer Sam wanted. No.

Sam was in the eighth grade, and he didn't mind studying or doing homework. In fact, Sam liked to read, and he had a photographic memory for words and numbers. School was easy for him and he loved it. _Nerd!_

Dean was feeling less than charitable toward his little brother now, but he was proud that Sam was always one of the smartest kids in school, even if they weren't usually anywhere long enough for it to be known. Dean knew. Dean signed Sam's report cards when Dad wasn't around, which was most of the time. Dean was the one to praise Sam for his good grades, and if he could scrounge up enough cash, he would take Sam out for pizza to celebrate his straight A's. Sometimes Dean called him "Geek Boy," but he meant it affectionately. He was not only proud, but maybe a little in awe. Sam could do anything, be anything he wanted.

School wasn't so easy for Dean. At seventeen, he should have been in his senior year, but he'd repeated sixth grade. As a result, he was two years away from graduating. The thought of two more years of high school made Dean's stomach churn. High school was stupid, full of stupid kids who had no idea about the things Dean knew. He'd been hunting ghosts and monsters for years. He'd ganked werewolves and wendigos and all manner of monsters with his father, watched them die and burned their carcasses. He found it hard to get excited about pep rallies and high school football games. He had too much else to do, more important responsibilities.

Dean let his anger dissipate. No use hanging on to it. Sam was quickly absorbed in his studies once again and Dad was bent over his journal. Dean fell asleep to the quiet shuffling of Sam's papers and the scratching of John's pen. When he woke from his nap, he was hungry, and he wandered to the kitchenette to forage through the cabinets and check out the supplies.

"Corned beef?" he called out.

"Yuck," Sam replied.

John gave no answer.

Dean scrounged around some more. "Mac 'n' cheese?"

"No!" Sam's voice cracked on that one and Dean smirked to himself. "Picky little princess," he muttered. He pulled out a can of chili and headed to the refrigerator. He was tired of this game. "Hot dogs and chili it is then."

Sam put up his homework and made his way to the kitchenette, where he pulled dishes and silverware out of the cabinets to set the table. John put away his journal and joined the boys, pulling milk for the them and a beer for himself from the refrigerator. Mealtime was by rote and usually happened when Dean got hungry enough to find something to cook.

They sat together around the little table. The one-room apartment offered nothing extra, just the basics and very little space. John told the boys it was temporary, a place to get them started in school until he could find something better. At the first of every school year, John always said the same thing, but it never seemed to work out that way. Sometimes he did find something better, but it ended up being temporary too.

As they ate, John recounted his latest hunt to the boys. He'd battled a water sprite. He told them how the sprite had dragged him into the water, pulled him down below the surface, and how he was able to kill it with a silver knife through the creature's heart.

"Yeah. Silver's a symbol of purity in many cultures," Sam added.

"Kills werewolves—well, silver bullet to the heart anyway," Dean supplied.

"True," said John. "You can fight and kill many things with silver: wraiths, shapeshifters..."

Winchester family times almost always centered on hunting—training for a hunt, preparing for a hunt or reviewing a recent hunt. With John, everything was about the hunt.

Sometimes, both the boys hunted with their father. At seventeen, Dean had been hunting with his father for five years, mostly on short trips, not more than a day or two. Someone had to look out for the youngest Winchester, and for as long as he could remember, that someone was usually Dean.

It was just within the past year that thirteen-year-old Sam had started going on hunts, but he'd been helping with research since he was nine. John started both boys in training early, Dean by the time he was eight and Sam even earlier, at six.

John taught his boys different games. He taught them hunting games—how to defend themselves in a hand-to-hand fight, how to handle not only a knife and a gun with skill, but a wide variety of weapons safely. They played tracking games and learned survival skills. They were John's little soldiers.

* * *

Later that night as John lay in his bed, he thought about what Dean had said. "I want to quit school and hunt full time." The words hit John hard, but he wouldn't let it show on his face. He knew Mary would never allow it. But Mary was dead, and her death had changed everything. John could still see her pinned to the ceiling, burned alive before his eyes, and that one moment, that terrible vision he could never forget, had scarred John's soul.

There was a time when John would never have entertained the thought of either of his boys quitting school. He'd started a college fund for the boys the day each one was born. Every month he would add money to the funds. Once, he'd had the normal hopes that any father would have for his sons, the hopes that he and Mary shared for their boys. But all that changed the day Mary died and John became obsessed with finding the thing that had killed his wife and torn his family apart.

Each year, John tried to keep the boys in the same school as long as he could. When they were younger, he did pretty well, only moving once or twice during the school year. He helped Dean with homework and made sure the boys ate a good supper, took their baths, and got to bed at a decent hour, at least on school nights. But back then, he was just getting started and only hunted on weekends when he could find a reliable babysitter.

By the time Sammy started school and Dean was in fifth grade, John wasn't just hunting, he was a full-fledged hunter. When he wasn't hunting, he was researching for a hunt. When he was on a hunt, he stayed until the job was done, no matter how long it took and whether he had someone to stay with the boys or not. So it fell to ten-year-old Dean to take care of six-year-old Sammy. Dean helped Sammy with homework and made sure he ate a good supper, took his bath, and got to bed at a decent hour. Dean no longer got help with his homework, and he had to repeat sixth grade.

John's obsession to find the thing that killed Mary became the center of his world. He loved his boys. They were Mary's sons. They were all he had left of her, but he convinced himself that he was at war and nothing else mattered—nothing. He told himself he needed to teach the boys to protect themselves, and that was true; but John went beyond that. He was training them to be soldiers at war. He was training them to hunt. It was all that mattered. The "family business." There was nothing else. Not for him, and not for his boys.

John had long ago cashed in both the boys' college funds to buy supplies and ammo. Now he was thinking it might be a good idea to let Dean drop out. He could use Dean's help full time. But Mary would hate him for it, and Sam was doing exactly what Mary would do, fighting to make Dean stay in school. John's gut churned. Life had become cruel without her. He stared into the night. _I'm sorry__,__ Mary. I'll try to hold on until they graduate High School, but after that..._ A silent tear slid down his face.

* * *

It was Saturday morning and the day started early. Breakfast was cereal and toast. Then, whatever apartment or motel room they were in at the time was cleaned and laundry was gathered to take to the laundromat. This weekend, John was home, so he pitched in with the boys to get the work done by lunchtime. After lunch, it was time for training.

When John was home, training games were not play. Training was treated like life or death because that's the way John felt it had to be. The boys were training to be in the family business, and there was no room for error. A mistake could mean death. That's what John taught his boys.

This weekend, the training began with an obstacle course John had set up. Dean took point. He was older and more experienced. First, it ran through a field. The boys crawled through mud and scaled walls and chain metal fences, crawled under and through barbed wire and over rocks. All the while, they scanned for targets and were expected to hit the marks with precision. Once they made it through the field, the course wound through the woods. They ran, dodging trees and bushes, still scanning for targets. They crawled through underbrush and searched for cover as they made their way through the course.

They were approaching a small hill cautiously, expecting a target at the top. It seemed a great place for an ambush. Dean gave a quick, low whistle to Sam and motioned for him to take cover. Ducking behind a tree, Sam kept Dean in sight. Dean ducked behind a large rock and quickly scanned the territory, planning their next move.

Satisfied that he had adequately scanned the area, Dean signaled for Sam to advance while he covered. He nodded toward an outcrop of rock close by. Sam eased around the tree and scanned the territory, assessing the area. Dean watched and breathed a quick sigh of relief when Sam promptly spotted the outcrop and darted up the hill toward it. He was almost to his cover when Dean heard the thwack of a hard impact on flesh and saw Sam go down, sprawling to the ground, his hand clutching his thigh. Dean knew immediately what Sam had done. _Shit! Shit! Shit!_ Sam had hit a trip wire.

He'd failed. Dean was point, and he should have scanned the area better before he sent his brother out. He'd missed something. Sam had failed. He should be watching better. He should have seen the trip wire. He should have been more aware of the path he chose to run. Dad would be disappointed. Sam hit the ground, wincing in pain from the wound on his thigh, and Dean knew the disappointment of failure was ripping through Sam just like it was through him. They would get a major lecture and some extra training for their mistakes.

Once again, Dean scanned ahead and saw the clues he should have seen before. _Damn!_ There was another trip wire_. Sonofabitch!_ Dean darted out, maneuvering around the second trap, and quickly made his way to Sam, who was crawling toward the outcrop.

"I got ya, Sammy. You okay?" He glanced quickly at his brother's leg and was relieved when he didn't see blood.

"Yeah. 'M sorry, Dean" Once the pain subsided—and, Dean suspected, some of the disappointment—Sam was able to make it to the outcrop on his own power. Dean knew well that part of the test was to put failures behind them and finish the course. They didn't have the luxury to nurse wounds or dwell on failures. They had to focus on getting the job done.

When they made it through the woods, it was close to midnight. John was waiting.

"I got a call from Bobby this afternoon. There's a spirit we can take out in the next town over. Come on, boys."

They piled into the Impala and headed into the night.

It was Dean that John's dark eyes pierced first. Dean's face burned hot. There was no way Dad would miss their faux pas back in the woods. It wasn't enough that they made it through a grueling obstacle course that even marines would find daunting or that he was only seventeen and Sam was thirteen. Dean swallowed back his protest. His arguments weren't important. The training was important. It was a matter of life and death. They'd been through all this before.

"You boys made a serious mistake back there."

"Yes, sir!" the boys answered in unison.

"It was a rock that hit you Sammy. I imagine you got a pretty big bruise." Sam rubbed his thigh. "It could have been any type of projectile—a bullet, a stake, maybe an arrow or a bomb. And, Dean, you were point. You should have scanned better before you sent your brother out. You could have gotten him killed. That was sloppy work!"

Dean would have said he was sorry, but he knew the response he'd get from that. Both boys had been down that road enough not to go there. Sorry didn't help, not with Dad. "Yes, sir." Dean hated to disappoint John more than anything. He hated to fail, and it was a bitter pill.

They rode without conversation. John played his favorite rock music, and it was a long while before he elaborated about Bobby's call.

* * *

"We're after an angry spirit in an old farmhouse," John said, finally breaking the silence. "Seems every few years some kids get the notion to test out the local legend and go in this farmhouse. Some come out terrified with new stories to add to the legend, and there've been a couple of deaths over the years."

"So what's the legend?" asked Sam.

"It's a routine salt-and-burn, Sammy. That's all you need to know."

Sam hated when John cut him off. The legend was important to Sam. Figuring out the "why" was the part he liked about the family business, and he was sure it was helpful in solving the hunts faster. That's why he liked staying with Bobby when John and Dean hunted. Bobby taught him a lot about research and Sam soaked it up like a sponge. Besides, Bobby had books—ancient books that you couldn't find in a library, not if you were thirteen years old.

They arrived at the farmhouse and were loading their guns with rock salt rounds when John spoke again.

"Bobby figures the remains are in the house with the spirit." John looked his boys in the eye. "I want you boys to handle this one. It's all on you. I'm going to be here, and if you call, I'll be there. It's your first hunt. Just you two. Don't let me down."

Sam and Dean exchanged looks. White teeth shined through Dean's muddy face as he grinned and winked. _Let's do this Sammy._ His look said it all; neither of them needed to speak. Sam could hear him loud and clear, and he couldn't help but respond with a broad smile for his brother.

Sam was excited about this opportunity to hunt a real ghost, just him and Dean—a chance to prove themselves. He knew they could do it, but he hated going in without knowing what he was facing. _"You don't always know what you're up against."_ That was John's rationale for leaving them in the dark, but Sam thought it was dangerous and unnecessary.

"_If you know what you're up against, you know how to fight it better. That's why you research."_ That's what Bobby always said. Grudgingly, Sam knew both men were right for their own reasons.

Both boys checked their guns and then nodded to each other. They were ready. Dean took the point, heading toward the house first, Sam following behind. When they reached the house, they silently made their way up the steps and across the porch to the front door. Dean nodded to Sam, who held his shotgun ready. Sam watched Dean's hand at the doorknob intently as he silently counted down. Three—three fingers pointed toward the door, two—two fingers, one—one finger.

Dean pushed the door wide open and ducked low, gun drawn as he entered the house, sweeping right to left, scanning the room. Sam immediately followed, entering at full height, gun drawn and sweeping left to right. The room was dark, but they were used to looking for any slight movement, listening for any tiny sound. Flashlights held up next to their guns, they moved with practiced ease, almost like a dance, clearing the room and moving forward, just like they'd been taught.

There were two doors leading out of the front room. One was directly in front of them and one to the right. No way to tell which direction would lead them to a spirit or the remains. Choosing the wrong direction would allow the spirit to ambush them from behind. Dean motioned Sam to take the right as he moved forward.

Sam scanned the room as he slowly entered. He looked carefully, gun and flashlight searching along each wall from corner to corner and along the floor. He didn't want a repeat of the afternoon's failure. There was nothing in the room, nothing to cover, so he began to work his way across to the far side, always alert for any movement. He saw nothing but when he heard a grunt and gunfire, he knew Dean had found the spirit.

Sam doubled back and ran through the room and the door Dean had taken. Once in that room, he spotted Dean on the floor at the far side of the room, sitting against a doorjamb.

"Dean!" Sam grabbed his brother by the shoulders. "Dean, you okay?"

"Yeah. I shot it, but it'll be back. We gotta find the remains."

"What was it?"

"A pissed off _sonofabitch_, Sammy! What do you think?" Dean was picking himself up from the floor with Sam's help.

"I mean, was it male or female? Did you see any evidence of how it died? Any marks or scars?

Dean gave his brother an incredulous look. "I don't know, man. It happened sort of fast. I was trying not to get killed." He brushed off Sam's grip on his shoulders and rolled his eyes.

"It could be important, Dean. It might help us figure out where to look for the remains."

Dean gave his brother another look. "Geek!"

Sam sighed. "Dean."

"Okay, okay. Its eyes glowed red and it grabbed my shoulders and pushed me against the door." Dean hesitated like he was trying to picture what he'd seen. "His wrists had bruises around them, like rope burns, like he was bound. His face was bruised too, on one side, the left. His left eye was blacked and swollen almost shut."

"Did he say anything?"

"No. I think he kinda hissed at me." Dean was growing impatient with this line of questioning. "I don't know, man! Let's just find the damn thing and burn it!"

"All right," Sam said absently. Angry spirits were most often born of violent death and remained to seek revenge. He was trying to formulate a hypothesis as to what might have happened to the spirit, which could help them figure out where to find the remains.

"You find anything on the other side of the house?" It was Dean's turn to question.

"No. The room was empty. I didn't get past the first room before I heard a gunshot." Sam was pensive. "You say the spirit shoved you into the doorjamb?" He shone his flashlight in the door and down a flight of steps. "Basement," Sam mused. "Might be he was tied up down there. You say his face was bruised?"

Dean nodded.

"Maybe he was tied up and beaten—tortured."

"I'd use the basement if I was going to torture someone."

"Dean, you'd never torture someone. We save people; we don't torture."

"You're right, Sammy." Dean grinned. "We're the good guys. Come on, I'm heading down first. You cover me."

Dean crouched low and shone his flashlight on the stairs. He had his gun drawn and ready as he descended. Sam was immediately behind him, his flashlight and gun scanning the room below. They made it to the base of the stairs and saw a figure tied to a chair off to the right. A brief glance passed between the brothers, which relayed their thoughts instantly. _Yahtzee!_

They made their way slowly toward the body. There was no odor. It had obviously been there undisturbed for years and had mummified. Suddenly, there was coldness around them and Sam noticed his breath fogged as he exhaled. Red glowing eyes appeared in front of him. The face contorted into a frozen, silent scream, bruised and swollen. Sam gasped, and the spirit hissed and grabbed Sam by the shoulders. It pinned Sam's arms to his side, and Sam was unable to raise his gun to shoot.

"Dean!" Sam screamed to his brother for help. Dean couldn't shoot the spirit without hitting Sam as well. Sam knew rock salt wouldn't kill him but it would hurt like hell, so he braced himself for the pain. Sam looked through the spirit and saw Dean running to the mummified remains, pulling salt and lighter fluid from his pockets as he ran. He quickly doused the body with both and fired up the mummy.

Flames immediately engulfed the figure. As the remains burned, the spirit's face contorted, first in confusion and then realization of what was happening. Sam shuddered, and then he breathed a sigh of relief.

Dean was immediately by his brother's side. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good." Sam gazed around the room and thought about the circumstances of this death. It sank in that this was no longer a legend. It was a person who was obviously tortured, and the body had just been left. "I wish I knew the story behind this."

"Come on, Sammy. You're such a girl! It's over. We killed it. Let's go."

"Yeah, you're right." But Sam resolved to find out what happened and who the spirit was. He wanted to satisfy his curiosity, and something in him felt that the spirit needed someone to know. Maybe next time he was at Bobby's, he'd look it up.

* * *

The ride back home was a time to review all that they did on the hunt, and was no less a learning experience than any other part of the day. The boys related everything that happened on the hunt to John. He nodded, listening intently. Occasionally, he added a "that was good" and even a final "I'm proud of both of you." John made no mention of the failure during training the day before. The boys had absolved themselves by the successful hunt. It didn't go unnoticed. Both boys were obviously glad for the reprieve and, for now, they enjoyed the camaraderie of hunters.

When the Winchesters arrived back at the apartment after stopping along the way for breakfast, it was eight a.m. The boys were exhausted. Sam showered first while Dean and John cleaned and stowed away the guns and equipment. Sam was fast asleep by the time Dean finished his shower and crawled under the covers. John finished writing in his journal while his sons drifted into a dreamless sleep.

John was tough on the boys, and he knew it was a rough life. They missed a lot. He wanted to give his sons a stable life and some hope of going to college, maybe one day settling down to a normal life. But it wasn't possible. When John looked at his boys, he saw that they were strong and smart. They knew what was real in this world, and they knew how to face it head on. Dean was already a hunter, and John had no doubt that Sam would be too—no doubt that the Winchesters would be the best damn hunters on the planet.

* * *

Sam woke up first that afternoon, and gathering up his books, he spread them out on the table to finish his schoolwork. John and Dean continued to sleep. Dean's regular breathing and John's faint snores didn't bother Sam. He was studying for a history exam on Civil War battles, and he was totally fascinated.

Soon Dean began to stir. Sam was watching from his place at the table when Dean opened his eyes, rolled over, and sat up on the side of the bed, orienting himself. His back was to Sam and he stretched his arms out, rocking his head from side to side. Sam knew that Dean was aware that he was being watched. Not much got by Dean. He seemed to know everything, and Sam had a pretty good idea that Dean knew what was on Sam's mind.

Dean stood, stretched again and headed to the bathroom. Sam decided it would be best to let Dean get good and awake. He was an absolute bear when he woke up and was a lot more reasonable once he'd had the chance to freshen up. Sam really wished he'd made a pot of coffee.

When Dean came out of the bathroom, Sam motioned with a nod of his head toward the front door. He didn't want to wake John, and he'd been waiting all afternoon for Dean to wake up. Dean gave a heavy sigh and headed out the door with Sam on his heels.

"What?" Dean was on the defensive already.

"You can't quit school, Dean. You just can't. It would be the biggest mistake of your life." Sam knew John had said no, but he also knew that John's heart wasn't in that 'no,' and Dean wouldn't give up. Sam had to convince Dean he needed to stay in school.

"Yeah, well, I don't think so. What do I need with all that crap? I'm a hunter, Sammy. It's all I'm ever going to be and I can learn all I need from Dad and Bobby." Dean was adamant, but Sam had confidence in his ability to convince Dean.

"Dean, there's more to life than hunting and you need to be able to do something besides hunt," Sam pleaded.

"I can work on cars—classic cars. I could rebuild the Impala from the ground up if I had to. Don't you think I can't!"

"I know, Dean, but you need to finish high school. You can't drop out. Just...you just can't."

"I'm already a year behind and that means two more years to finish. I can't do this for two more years. I hate it. Don't you get it?" Dean's face was anguished in a way that Sam had never seen before, and he didn't quite know how to handle that kind of emotion from Dean.

"For all their smarts, those teachers have no idea the things we know, Sammy. They have no idea what the real world is about. They don't even know how many times we've saved their asses! And I have to pretend I care about that stuff with all I have to do?" Dean was shaking his head emphatically. "Uh-uh. No. Can't do it! Won't do it!"

"Dean!" Sam had a sinking feeling he was losing this battle, so he changed tactics. "Dad won't let you quit."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, he will. He wants me to hunt full time. You'll see." Dean held Sam's eyes with his own. He was deadly serious. "I'm more important to him hunting than I am in school. I don't have time for both, Sammy. Maybe you do, but I don't." Dean went back into the apartment, leaving Sam speechless on the doorstep.

* * *

When Dean stomped into the apartment, John was up and gazing down at Sam's homework on the table.

"What's up?" he asked. Dean could tell that John had a pretty good idea what he and Sam had been arguing about.

"Nothing." Dean headed to the kitchen and started scrounging through the pitifully bare cabinets. It occurred to Dean that John wouldn't weigh in on their argument. He would let Sammy guilt-trip Dean into staying in school, because Sammy was so good at conning Dean into doing whatever Sammy wanted. _Damnit!_ Dean slammed the cabinet door. He knew Sam had the high ground on this and even Dad wasn't going to stand up against him.

"I need to make a grocery run. We don't have much to make dinner with," Dean groused.

"Okay." John searched his wallet until he found a VISA card in the name of John Padalecki. "Here's a card you can use. Get whatever you think we need."

Dean took the card and glanced at the name. "I look Polish to you?"

John smirked. "It'll work." He motioned Dean out the door.

Sam was still on the doorstep, and Dean could see the wheels turning in Sam's big ol' nerdy head as he contemplated what to do next. He was not willing to let go of this.

"Where you headed, Dean?"

"We need supplies. I'm going to the store. I'll fix dinner when I get back."

"Want me to go with you?"

"No!" Dean left Sam speechless on the doorstep for the second time that afternoon.

_**TBC**_


	2. Team Winchester

_**Dropout  
**__**Chapter Two**_  
_**Team Winchester**_

Monday afternoon when the boys got home from school, John's truck was gone and there was a note on the table.

"_Found a job a couple of towns over.  
Will take a week at most.  
Dean, you're in charge.  
Call Bobby or Pastor Jim if you need anything."_

"Great" Dean huffed and threw the note on the table. He wished he was on this hunt with Dad. He hated being left behind, and it would be a great way to blow off some steam. "We're on our own, Sammy."

"What else is new?" Sam laid his books on the bed. "I'm hungry."

"Yeah, me too," Dean sighed. "Want spaghetti?"

"Sounds good."

Dean got a couple of spaghetti dinners out of the freezer and popped them in the microwave. Sam got dishes from the cabinet and bag-o-salad from the refrigerator. They worked together as usual to make the meal and then cleaned up afterward. Soon Sam had books and notebooks spread out on the table.

"Need some room for your schoolwork?" Sam offered, waving his hand across the empty side of the table.

"No." Dean snorted. "Got a history test tomorrow and I'm already way behind. I'll never learn it now, so I might as well forget it."

"Dean, you can't wait 'til the last minute." Sam looked at Dean wide-eyed, as if he should know this—as if he somehow _didn't_ know this. "You have to start studying ahead of time."

_Well, duh!_ Dean turned to face his brother. This was as good a way as any to blow off steam. "Sammy! When exactly did you expect me to study? This weekend? Did you forget what all we did this weekend? And did you notice that when you were studying, I was fixing supper and buying groceries? I'm not a geek like you!" Sam's face fell and Dean knew he'd hit the mark. "Are you aware that I don't have a photographic memory like you do? I can't just read something and remember it forever." Dean was waving his hands over Sam's schoolwork strewn across the table. "I don't have time for all this."

Sam was quiet for a moment, staring at Dean with those soft, thoughtful eyes.

_God help me. He's gonna be a girl about this. _Dean braced himself.

"I'll help you study. I know history. We can get you through this."

"Dude! I'm not sure I get why this is so important to you." There was no possible way Sam was going to let this go and Dean knew he might as well give in. He walked over to the bed, picked up his history book and tossed it to Sam. "Have at it."

* * *

Tuesday afternoon, Sam was waiting for Dean after school. He fell into step with his brother as they headed for the Impala.

"How'd the test go?"

"I'm pretty sure I passed." Dean smiled at Sam's self-satisfied look. "Don't want to hear I told you so—but thanks, Sammy. You helped a lot."

"No problem." Sam's grin could light up the whole block. Clearly he thought he scored points in this fight—that somehow passing this test made a difference.

"Let's go to the gym and do some kickboxing," Dean said with a grin. Let Sam have his little victory. Dean could use a little sparring right now, but he was not up for another war of words with Sam. "You up for getting your ass kicked?"

"Bring it." Sam turned and broke into a run, his happy laughter trailing behind him as Dean raced to catch up.

It was later that evening when John called to check on his sons.

"_You doing __okay__, Dean?"_

"Yeah, we're good. You don't need to worry about us. How's the hunt going? Can I help you out, Dad?"

John didn't answer.

Dean sensed a weak spot. Maybe he could get Dad to cave. "I could take off a day."

"_Dean..."_ John's voice was hesitant, as if he was considering it.

"It wouldn't make that much difference, Dad."

_"No, Dean." _Apparently John's brief moment of weakness evaporated. "_You stay there and make sure you both get to school on time."_

"Dad, let me help." Dean was desperate to get in on the hunt.

_"We'll see. I'll call you again in a couple of days."_

Dean was crushed. In his heart he knew John wanted him hunting. They were a perfect team and, truth be known, John needed the backup. He'd had a falling-out with just about every other hunter they knew at one time or another, and it was getting more difficult for John to find someone to hunt with. It was dangerous for him to be out there alone. If Dean could just get John to see how much he needed him.

_"Dean, just take care of Sammy for me." _John's voice cut through Dean's thoughts and ended the conversation. Dean had his job, and his job was Sammy.

"Of course, Dad. You know I will."

Sam waited until Dean hung up. "Want me to help you with schoolwork?"

"What's this, Sammy? You gonna tutor me every night now?" Dean couldn't help the bitter note in his voice. He knew he shouldn't take his frustration out on Sam. It wasn't his fault.

"I just want to help, Dean."

"Look, I'm glad you helped me with my history exam. I'm glad I passed, but it doesn't change anything." He tossed the phone onto the table and paced a few steps toward the bed before he turned to face Sam. "You don't get it. It's not about a history exam. It's about school. I can't do this anymore. I can't sit in a classroom and pretend to be something I'm not."

"What are you talking about, Dean? You _can_ do this. I don't want my big brother to be a dropout 'cause... 'cause..." Sam stumbled on the words, barely choking them out. "You're not stupid. You're the smartest person I know."

Dean could see the hurt in his little brother's eyes. He didn't want to hurt Sam, but he had to make Sam see his point of view. "How can I make you understand, Sammy? It's not about being smart or stupid. And it has nothing to do with you. You like school. You're good at it. But I'm not good at it. School is like torture for me."

Dean was pacing, turning to Sam, turning away from him and then turning back, all the while pleading with him. "I can't sit in class and read that Shakespeare stuff. I can't even figure out what he's saying! And dissecting worms and frogs and...and...figuring out triangles and parallelograms, that's stupid stuff!"

"I can help you figure it out, Dean." Sam's hazel eyes glistened and Dean thought Sam might cry, but he couldn't stop now.

"I've cleaned out bullet wounds and set broken bones. I've shot werewolves and watched them die. I've fought off angry spirits, dug up graves and burned bones. Please understand me. I can't keep pretending I'm just another kid in school. I'm not. I'm a hunter. It's in my blood. It's what I have to be."

"But—"

"Sam!" Dean was beyond reason. "This is it for me. It's what I want. It's what I am! It's what you are too. It's in your blood. You'll see! We make a hell of a team. Team Winchester." Dean was waving his hands passionately like he was preaching the Gospel. "The family business! You, me, and Dad. Hell, we just did our first hunt together, you and me. We kicked ass, Sammy!"

"Yeah, all right." Sam barely whispered his response.

* * *

Wednesday morning, Dean was leaning over his brother's face. "Rise and shine, Sammy! Get the lead out, princess!"

Sam's face scrunched and he pried one eye open, shaking his head. His long, tangled hair flipped from side to side. He threw back the covers and began scrubbing his eyes. Muttering something unintelligible, he stumbled to the bathroom.

"Don't forget to brush your teeth, kiddo! And use some mouthwash on your stinking breath!" Dean yelled after him.

Dean grinned when he heard Sam brushing his teeth, and he let out a wicked laugh when he heard Sam scream, "Dean!" Sam ran from the bathroom and squared off at his brother, his fists balled beside him, his eyes flashing angry.

Dean doubled over laughing, pointing at Sam's bright blue lips. "Ha!" Dean gasped through bouts of laughter. He held a jar of food coloring between forefinger and thumb, shaking it back and forth. "Let me see those pretty, blue teeth."

Sam dived headlong into Dean's gut, knocking him to the floor where they both rolled over each other. Sam was kicking and punching and Dean was trying to defend himself without hurting his younger brother.

Finally, they both sat up in the middle of the floor.

"Ah, Sammy, the girls are gonna love it. You look good in blue!" Dean snickered.

"Jerk!" Sam was still steaming as he headed back to the bathroom. "You better hope I can get this stuff out!"

* * *

Thursday morning, Dean was up and dressing while Sam was still in bed, as usual. _That boy could sleep through the apocalypse__._He shrugged. He could give him a few more minutes.

Dean finished buttoning his shirt, then grabbed his boots, thinking he would need to wash them soon because they were kind of stinky. He slipped his foot in and felt it glide over something soft and squishy. Not knowing what might have gotten into his boot during the night, he ripped it off and fell backward onto the bed as he flung the boot across the room. "Damn it!"

Sam threw off his covers and sat in the middle of the bed laughing until he fell over holding his sides.

"Bitch!" Dean peeled off his sock and took a whiff. His face scrunched up and his eyes rolled back. "Wheeewww. Sardines?"

"Yeah." Sam was still snickering.

"Good one, Sammy." Dean really didn't mind the prank. There was something magical about Sam's laughter, and this only meant that it was Dean's turn and Sam had just upped the ante.

* * *

Thursday afternoon, Dean wheeled the Impala in the parking lot next to John's truck. "Dad's back early," he said.

"You think that's good or bad?" Sam had a feeling this wasn't going to be good. It wouldn't be the first time they'd come home from school to spend an hour or so cleaning and stitching wounds. But Sam knew that at least Dad was alive and in good enough shape to drive home. That was a good sign.

"Don't know yet." Dean threw the car into park and bolted out, slamming the door hard behind him. Sam followed at a slower pace, dreading what he might find when he got inside.

When they entered the room, John was lying on the bed, fully clothed, his booted feet crossed at the ankles. His eyes were closed and his hands folded on his chest. He wasn't sleeping. He was resting while he waited.

"Dad?" Sam knew the look—knew John was ready to leave again. He wondered why John had bothered to come by at all. They hadn't expected him home yet, and he wasn't hurt. He had everything he needed in the back of his truck.

"Boys, I need you. I need backup," John's deep voice rumbled.

Sam didn't like this. He felt sick. Dad needed backup, and once again the hunt was more important than anything else. It wasn't fair. "I got school tomorrow, Dad. I got a history exam," Sam whined. "What about Caleb or Travis? Can't you get one of them to back you up?"

John didn't have time to answer before Dean spoke up. "I'm in, Dad. I don't have any tests."

Sam turned a pleading look to Dean. "You don't need to miss any more school, Dean. You've missed too much already." He knew it was useless before the words left his lips, but he had to try.

Dean turned to stand between Sam and John so that only Sam could see his deadly eyes. "Shut up." Dean's voice was a lethal whisper.

Sam swallowed hard. There was no way he could fight this. His mouth fell open, and he watched dumbly as Dean turned to John.

"I'm ready in five, Dad!" Dean grabbed his duffel and started stuffing extra clothes and supplies into it.

John spoke softly to his youngest son. "Sam, this is important. Lives depend on us."

"I'm staying here," Sam replied. His voice trembled, you didn't defy Dad, but Sam was determined. School was important, and he wouldn't give it up without a fight. Sam's eyes were on Dean. He felt betrayed as he watched Dean prepare to leave with John.

John looked at his youngest son, and Sam couldn't tell what his father was thinking, but John turned without another word and walked out the door.

Sam followed them out the door, and they left Sam on the doorstep. He watched as they rolled away in John's truck. He wanted to scream. He'd won a small victory for himself. He would be in school tomorrow, but he was loosing the battle with Dean. Dean would miss another day, one of many—too many. _School is important,_ he thought, _but they're__ saving lives, hunting monsters. School can't compete with that, not for Dean._"

* * *

"What are we hunting Dad?"

"Werewolf. Hunting grounds are in southwest Ohio, so it's not far. But it's a wooded area. That's why I need backup. If it'd been in town, I could have taken it myself."

"Yeah. Too many places to hide in the woods. I wish Sammy was with us. We could use him."

"Sammy's got to go to school, son. He's only thirteen."

"You saying I don't have to go to school? I can quit?"

John tightened his lip.

It was a little slip, but Dean didn't miss much. He was a smart kid. "I'm seventeen."

"I didn't say that!" John _didn't_ say it, but he wanted it. He was deliberate in pulling Dean away from school. He couldn't admit it to himself and he couldn't tell Dean to quit. But he was making it impossible for his son to continue and he knew that if Dean did quit he'd have a full-time partner. John knew he was throwing out mixed signals, but he convinced himself that he was doing what he had to do—that he didn't have a choice. "You stay in school and finish. It's what your mother would want."

"Is that what you want, Dad?"

"Drop it, Dean."

* * *

John parked the truck on the side of the one-lane dirt road that led into the forest. Four hikers in the last two months had been found dead. They were supposedly mauled by a wild animal, one that hunted on the full moon and ate out the victims hearts. If anything spelled out werewolf, these were the signs.

It was already dark, nearly ten when they reached the hunting grounds. Tracking at night was difficult, but John had trained for years and he'd taught Dean well. He liked to have Dean's sharp young eyes on the trail, and he wished he could have Sam along too. It would've been good training for him.

They moved silently through the trees, slowly and methodically. They listened for sounds and searched for tracks, keeping each other in sight. The full moonlight filtered down through the leaves, helping the hunters visualize the clues. John saw Dean stop and bend low to the ground. Dean looked closely as his hand moved slowly, gracefully over a spot on the forest floor. Deep in concentration, his gaze moved farther up, then his hand followed as if he could feel heat coming up from the ground. He looked up at John and raised his hand. His motion confirmed what John thought. _He's found the tracks!_ John was excited. The hunt was on!

It was still a slow, painstaking process to follow the tracks. Dean moved silently from print to print while John moved from tree to tree, undercover, off to the side, covering his son. John looked ahead for signs of the werewolf while Dean concentrated on following the trail. John had his rifle ready, loaded with silver bullets, and his pistol was in its holster at his side. Dean was armed in much the same way.

If they were lucky, they would be able to identify the werewolf from a distance and use the rifle. But real werewolves didn't turn into wolves like in the movies. They were humans with wolf-like characteristics—long, lethal claws and long, sharp, pointed teeth that ripped flesh like daggers. From a distance, they looked like people, which meant John and Dean had to get close. They had to be deadly quiet.

John heard it first. A quiet snarling. Their prey was close. He motioned to Dean, tilting his head in the direction of the sound. Dean froze and listened, then nodded as he heard it too. John did a quick survey and motioned his son forward. Dean remained low to the ground. John fell in behind him at full height. They were close enough to identify the long animal teeth in the snarling face and know for sure it was a werewolf. It spotted them and instantly sprang away behind a rock. John got off a shot but the creature was too fast.

The chase was on. Too late for stealth now. Both hunters ran after the werewolf at top speed, crashing through the underbrush, keeping the prey in sight. John was trying to run and assess a place for a good shot. Dean was running full out. Suddenly, John ran up the side of a large boulder and, at the top, he got a good view of the creature. A short moment to aim, and he landed a bullet in the creature's torso.

Dean didn't hesitate. He was still running full speed toward it when he heard the werewolf's howl of pain. He knew it had been hit but not likely fatally. Werewolves could only be stopped by a silver bullet to the heart. And as good a shot as John was, they both knew it was not likely he'd hit the heart of a fast-moving target from that distance, but it should be a good enough wound to slow the creature down. Dean ran on until he came face to face with the snarling werewolf. He quickly emptied three rounds straight to the heart.

The werewolf fell to the ground, and Dean fell onto his knees next to its body, heaving deep breaths of precious air into his lungs.

John ran up behind him, clapping him on the shoulder. "You okay?"

"Wheeeeew! That thing's got some stinking breath!"

John chuckled. "Damn, son. You're on your game tonight. Good job!" Then he breathed a sigh of relief.

* * *

They didn't make it back before Sam left for school the next morning, and Dean was still in bed when Sam got home that afternoon.

"Hey, Dean. What time'd you get in?" Sam threw his book bag on the bed next to his brother.

Dean was bleary eyed. "About nine, I guess." He yawned and then sat up, putting both feet on the floor and running his hands through his hair.

"Where's Dad?"

"Off on another hunt with Caleb." Dean snickered. "He said I had to come home and babysit you."

"Yeah, right." Sam gave Dean an affectionate punch on the shoulder.

"How was your history test? You ace it?"

"Yeah, I think so. Hey, Dean, what'd you hunt?"

"Werewolf, Sammy. Bad as the one you killed last year. We coulda used your help, but we wasted it without ya." Dean stood up and headed to the bathroom. "I'm gonna clean up and then we can go get something to eat. I'll tell you about it at supper."

* * *

Saturday morning came and the brothers followed their usual routine, eating breakfast and then cleaning the apartment and doing the laundry. Cash was tight, so they stayed at the apartment and had soup and sandwiches.

Sam was quiet, and Dean dreaded what he figured was coming. Sam had not talked about him quitting school since Tuesday. There was no chance in hell he'd forgotten. Sam was cooking up something in that big head of his. He knew there was about to be another heart-to-heart, and it would probably lead to another war of words. He didn't want to do this. He just really, really didn't.

Dean felt sick. Was it too much to hope? Last night Sam had listened in rapt attention to every detail of the hunt. He seemed to understand Dean's excitement. Hell, if Dean didn't know better, he would swear Sam was proud of him. Now Sam was going to spoil all his happiness with another big fight about school? _Damn it!_

"Just sit here." Sam cleared away the remnants of lunch and grabbed his book bag, bringing it over to the table. Dean gave a loud sigh and rolled his eyes.

"Sam!" Dean pushed away from the table, starting to get up.

"Just wait a minute. Please." Sam's voice was calm. He took a booklet out of his book bag and laid it on the table in front of Dean.

Dean saw big letters on the front. _"GED."_ He was speechless.

"I get it, Dean. I understand. All I ask is that you get your GED."

Dean nodded. It was not easy to hold back the tears. Sam understood him. It was the best thing Dean could ask.

"This is a study book for the exam. We've got all weekend to learn the material, and you can take the test online Monday morning at the library."

"When did you get this?"

"Thursday afternoon, when you and Dad left on your Great Werewolf Caper." Sam smiled.

"Thanks, Sammy." Dean opened the booklet and returned his little brother's smile. "What about Dad?"

"Dad wants you hunting. He won't put up much of a fight. No worse than we've dealt with before, anyway." Sam grinned at his brother. "And we're in this together, you and me, Team Winchester. We're gonna kick this test in the ass." Sam chuckled at his big brother's wide grin. "We'll have your GED before Dad get's back from his hunt."

_**END**_


End file.
